


By A Beating Heart (On Hiatus)

by orphan_account



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, F/M, Happy Ending, M/M, Multi, On Hiatus, Orcs, Post-Apocalypse, Zombie Apocalypse, also bilbo, immortal orcs, no one in the ships die (permanently), sigrid is badass, so not really an apocalypse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-21
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-03-18 20:22:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3582672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>It was slow to begin after the meteor’s strike.</em> </p><p>Two hundred and fifty six years ago the Earth was rocked by an alien meteor. Followed by natural disasters of a deadly magnitude, and a terrible disease, the earth was left in shambles; humanity divided into groups, or Havens, and treated other survivors the way they would the Enemy. </p><p>But times are changing. As the Havens begin to work together, their eyes turn to the source of the world's illness, the object they call TRAGU...all that is left to do is destroy it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**24 SEPTEMBER 2950**

* * *

 

_The question is not why, but how._

_Not why us. Not why did the comet have to hit us. Not why did the other countries close themselves off. The question is how._

_The only problem is, no one truly knows how._

_It was slow to begin after the meteor’s strike. The incident was all across the news, of course, blazing across headlines and scorching through twitter and face-book and whatever other objects they had back then. It burned down from the public’s eye after a little while, as did all news. And behind the scenes, the comet was so much more than anyone expected._

_It continued to smoulder in the background, frustrating scientists and experts alike assigned to it for five, ten years. Labelling it as shrewd perhaps sounds odd, for a seemingly inanimate object; but no one truly knows what TRAGU(Translunar Radioactive Gaseous Unidentifiable ), as it was so labelled, was truly capable of._

_The world was set aflame late 2600s, when an explosion sent dark clouds into the air and gale-force winds swept to cover the globe. Over nine billion, more than half of the entire human population, perished in that first blow. Half that number again died within mere weeks, whether from the fire raining from the sky or the ash choking the air. Heat temperatures rose worldwide, in some areas as dramatically as twenty degrees Celsius. Global warming, which had only recently been wrested under control, exploded; the last vestiges of Antarctica and the Arctic dissolved, engorging the oceans and swallowing the land. In only one month, a population of seventeen billion had been reduced to barely two._

_But the devastation had not finished._

_Obsessive Rabid Cachaemics, or ORCs, as they came to be known, became a plague of the land. Originating, theories claim, from TRAGU, spores are inhaled and incorporated into the bloodstream. Effects are almost immediate; the patient becomes fevered, their skin paling. The whites are tinged red, the irises black. A blood-frenzy sets in and the infected destroys all around it. There was no cure for the condition, and through some odd anomaly it granted the diseased immortality and an incredible resistance to pain. The ORCs were found to be susceptible to major head wounds and fire, but anything less would go practically unnoticed._

_Humanity was in chaos. A year and a half after TRAGU’s arrival, barely 600 million were left alive and uninfected, outnumbered by the swarms of ORCs; electricity, factories, all forms of technology had ground to a halt. Disorder and anarchy reigned, fights between gangs of uninfected killing as many as the ORCs did. Countries were cut off from other countries, the fall of landlines and transportation aiding this isolation._

_Fifty years later the earthquakes, tsunamis, molten rain and poisoned air finally began to abate, leaving in their wake a decimated population of barely 100 million. This populace began to divide into distinct groups, claiming safe lands or ‘Havens’ and defending them fiercely, whether from ORCs or other uninfected._

_In one country the situation was most dire; that of the TRAGU’s residence. The once-massive population was perhaps cut to the smallest of the lot, with the numbers of ORCs the highest. There were only four chief Havens, with around a dozen smaller scattered around the ravaged land._

_The Haven Erebor was the most renowned of these four. Lead by the line of its founder, Durin, the mountain sanctuary housed nearly a quarter of the country’s population. Close behind was that of Mirkwood, followed by Dale and Rivendell. Oddly enough the Havens of Dale and Erebor were mere kilometres apart; they managed to coexist, if not collaborate._

_After two hundred years, the population was once more on the rise. The population boom was not as extreme as that of before TRAGU’s arrival, kept in check by ORCs and frequent earthquakes and clashes between Havens. The levels of humans on Earth had risen back to 500 million. Forward thinkers were attempting to reinstate the Internet, and old methods of electrical generation such as windfarms and hydroelectricity were in place. Some had even journeyed to the dubbed Lonely Crater, where TRAGU had originally fell. Many believed that TRAGU was the source of the infection, and that getting rid of it would end the blight and allow the world to recover._

_None survived the journey. Whether it was the poison smouldering within the alien object, the hazardous landscape, other uninfected, or ORCs, it is not known. Many tried, and many failed._

_The resultant holocaust was blamed upon these ventures. Fire ripped once more from TRAGU. Tsunamis like none had ever seen in two hundred years swept over the land. ORCs seemed to be more common than ever before, destroying hundreds of smaller Havens. All thought of technology was abandoned for the next twenty years, in favour of the most basic survival; guns, knives and swords were hoarded like gold._

_The natural disasters once more began to die down, and again humanity continued to endure. With a world population estimated at merely 40 million, survivors were more guarded than ever before; wars between Havens became frequent, almost commonplace._

_It is back to Erebor that history now turned its eye._

_The mountain stronghold, sheltered from the tsunamis and fire rain, held almost 10,000 uninfected. It was the largest Haven in any of the countries, despite residing near the spot of TRAGU’s original descent. Erebor also retained the largest supply of weaponry in the world._

_The Haven was led by Thr_ _όr, a direct descendant of Durin, when an army of over 30,000 ORCs stormed the stronghold in 2903. Spearheaded by one of the oldest ORCs in existence, the mass devastated Erebor. Thrόr was killed in this charge, along with 9,000 of his followers. Thrόr’s son and infant grandson escaped the mountain with the other survivors and they fled to the South. Too proud to seek the help of Dale, Thrόr’s son Thráin ordered his following of barely 1,000 to build a new Haven on the shores of a lake. This new Haven was named Esgaroth, and was fiercely guarded by the survivors and whatever weapons they had managed to scavenge._

_By 2943 Esgaroth was settled and well-defended, self-sufficient as all Havens were. It seemed, however, that Luck was not overly fond of the survivors of Erebor; a horde of ORCs attacked Esgaroth, razing the Haven to the ground. This time, only 13 were left alive. By some trick of fate, Thorin, grandson of Thrόr, and his two nephews survived the attack – old and frail Thráin had died at the hands of the ORCs with two of his three children. Thirteen survivors, all that was left of a once 10,000 strong population, escaped to the East._

_Thus began the greatest journey of the world’s history._

 


	2. Convergence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two residents of the Haven Dale make an unexpected discovery while searching for a cache of weapons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the first chapter!  
> Here are some specifics that you may need to know:
> 
> Sigrid is 17, Thorin is 41, Aviva is 17, Bard is 46, Bilbo is 38, Fili is 18, Kili is 16, Bain is 15 and Tilda is 12. Everyone is human, except for Gandalf (but that will come up later) and the orcs. Orcs are made by the spore entering the bloodstream, which can happen by biting or inhalation; a lot of spores have to be inhaled for the disease to set in but it's better to be cautious. The geography is also a bit different. I will be posting a drawn map in a later chapter to show. Dale City and Dale Haven are two different things.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or most of the place names. Only the storyline is mine.

**SEPTEMBER 11, 2947**

**_Murphy’s Law states that anything that can happen, will happen._ **

**_It doesn’t necessarily mean a bad thing. It could mean an alright thing, or a happy thing, or an amazing thing, or a terrible thing. This world lives by Murphy’s Law, always has, always will. It’s just unlucky for those alive today that the apocalypse happened before we were born. It could be worse, after all; for the people who experienced it first-hand, their deal would be much more deadly._ **

**_Sometimes you can’t control Murphy’s Law. Sometimes you can. But whatever you do, it's always there._**

 

* * *

 

**APRIL 1, 2945**

**DALE CITY, 9km FROM DALE HAVEN**

There was no sky today. There was no sky, ever; just a heavy woollen blanket of mottled dark hues to roll ominously over the ruined world. Only the bloody underbelly of the noon sun was visible, red light colouring the clouds a sickly crimson. The wasted city below was left in an odd scarlet half-light, darkening the ruined husks of buildings, and the wide concrete road was littered with so many cracks that it looked like old grey paint peeling off a dark wall. Tufts of grass pushed the flaking shreds out of the way. The occasional telephone pole stood lonely and rotting, skeletal fingers pointing to the blackened sky.

The footsteps of the two bulky figures echoed unnaturally loudly through the oppressive silence. The ruined concrete crunched beneath their heavy boots, the camouflaged material of their unwieldy suits swishing like dead leaves on the breeze; their rasping breaths were conducted by the gas masks that deformed their features.

They came to a simultaneous stop, seemingly without communication, and the fractionally smaller one reached into one of the innumerable pockets decorating its cargo pants. The other drew out a compact machine gun, black metal seeming to draw light like a vacuum. A map unfolded with a complaining rustle.

‘How far?’ the taller asked, voice distorted by the mask as they leaned over the other’s shoulder.

‘About half a klick. We’re going good so far, no orcs on the radar yet.’

‘Maybe we’ll get home free.’

The smaller’s laugh sounded like walkie-talkie interference through the filters. Eerily the sound rolled down the road, petering out by the skeleton of a blocky building. The desolate view slid across the convex surface of the gas mask as the smaller paused to look after the echo. As their taller companion once more began to forge their way down the road, the smaller remained stock-still, head turned to face the way that they had came. Their breaths speeded and became sharper as their gloved fingers closed around the handgun at their waist.

The other seemed to notice their pause, glancing back and stopping.

‘What is it?’

‘Orcs,’ the first said tensely. It acted like a stimulant upon the other – they darted back, pivoting until their backs were pressed together. They hefted their snub-nosed gun, dark fingers going white around the handle.

‘None this way. How many do you see?’

‘Hard to tell, about a dozen. They’re pretty far away, not running yet; I don’t think they’ve seen us.’

‘Try shooting at ‘em. Fielir said it worked for him once.’

The smaller snorted disbelievingly but hefted their gun all the same, dark barrel pointing like a death knell as they paused to aim.

‘Can’t believe I’m taking Fielir’s advice,’ they muttered under their breath, before compressing the trigger. The gunfire was startlingly loud in the silence, cracking down the street. The smaller stiffened their wrist against the recoil, hidden features still turned towards the figures.

‘Huh,’ they murmured. The other’s head tilted around fractionally.

‘What?’

‘They’re not behaving like orcs.’

The taller shook their head dismissively.

‘There can’t be any survivors out here. No way in hell. No one else comes out this early, and Mirkwood is all the way over Arden.’

‘Well, these seem to have found a way.’

The smaller ignored the other’s hissed warning, taking slow steps down the ruined road as the ashy husks of buildings painted dark shadows across it. The other made an irritated noise and trailed after her.

‘I swear to god, if we die this is all your fault,’ they sighed.

The two made their way down the road once more, weapons tight in tense grips. The smaller lead the way, darting unerringly over stray heaps of rubble as their light breaths rattled through the mask; the other followed behind, their pace more sedate. As they drew nearer the huddle of figures drew in defensively, sharp eyes wary upon the masked figures.

‘Don’t shoot!’ one of them called roughly, showing his empty palms. ‘We’re human.’

His own features reflected back at him in the mirrored visors as the two regarded him. The curling trunks of the masks gave them a threatening, almost alien appearance, and he felt a tingle run down his spine; he just barely managed to stifle the urge to clench his fists as the smaller reached up one gloved hand. With a single movement they ripped off their helmet, allowing it to tumble to the floor.

‘Well, well,’ the girl smiled, almond-shaped eyes the same shade as the sky above. ‘Look who it is.’

The man gave a short, sharp laugh as he recognised her, a fraction of the weight on his shoulders draining at the sight of the familiar face. His companions shifted uncomfortably behind him. They were evidently thrown by the girl’s appearance, as well as her friendly greeting.

‘Sigrid Dale. It has been a long time indeed.’

He briefly eyed her, taking in the brown hair sticking to her sunbeaten skin in sweat-slicked curls and the confident hold she had on her handgun. The sight was a sharp contrast to the demure, shy little girl hiding behind her mother's legs.

‘The last time I saw you, you were ten years old.’

The girl tilted her head, small smile taking the edge off her next words:

‘And the last time I saw you, you didn’t have grey streaks.’

Turning to the other figure, she gave a swift nod so small it was near imperceptible. The man watched with weary blue eyes as the second’s helmet was removed, revealing a dark-skinned girl with an upturned nose.

‘This is my fried, Aviva Dale,’ Sigrid said with a tilt of her head. ‘Avvie, meet Thorin Erebor.’

The taller girl arched her eyebrows.

‘Erebor?’

‘More recently Esgaroth,’ the man confirmed. A small frown graced Sigrid’s features as she took him in.

‘I was sorry to hear about the raid.’

Thorin’s jaw twitched, but his gaze was even as he inclined his head. ‘As was I. It seems that Fate is not overly fond of the line of Durin.’

Sigrid gave a small nod of assent before sweeping her eyes briefly over his contingent. She then glanced at the ruins in the distance as if searching for something, watching attentively as lightning created a blinding flash across the gloomy sky, soon followed by the falling of far-off curtain of rain. 

‘Where are the rest of your people?’ she asked, brow furrowing.

‘This is all that is left.’

She shook her head in disgust, taking the news in stride. A slight shift was all that it took to bring her attention to Thorin; her face tightened a little, anticipating his next request as his eyes locked evenly with her own.

‘Sigrid. We have injured, and nowhere else to turn. Can your father help us?’

Her gaze darted away and her mouth tightened, her fingers digging into the hilt of her gun. 

‘I don’t know,’ she said angrily, as if irritated at her own lack of knowledge. Thorin’s brows drew together darkly, though flavoured with confusion instead of anger.

‘He is your father, is he not?’ he asked slowly. ‘You must know his mind.’

Sigrid wouldn’t meet his eyes, keeping her own trained on a rent in the concrete. The gazes of his silent companions were heavy upon her, as was Avvie’s troubled frown. 

‘I told you, I don’t know any more,’ came her tight admission. She met the man’s confused gaze with flat eyes. ‘Things have changed, Thorin, since you last came. If you choose to follow us, follow us with that knowledge.’

Thorin’s query of _how bad_ died on his tongue as he properly viewed the girl. The tense line of her shoulders seemed too tense for one living in a safe Haven, all too similar to that of the men behind him. Predatory, yet simultaneously prey.

‘Lead on,’ Thorin said firmly.

Sigrid nodded, expectations met. Thorin Erebor was exactly as she remembered.

‘It’s roughly three hours' walk back, perhaps more with your injured,’ she said. She studied his group briefly, noting the rotund ginger man slumped against a thin dark-haired one with blood trickling down his face; one had an axe blade protruding from his forehead, and a smaller man was standing on one leg. They all had an injury of some sort, bloodstained and dishevelled.

‘What about the weapons?’ Avvie asked abruptly. ‘We can’t just leave them.’

Sigrid stared once more at the ruined skyline as she considered. The grey sky was darkening to an ominous black, reddened sun dipping dangerously close to the horizon. Already orcs would be wending their way to the City of Dale, and the knowledge made her decision easy.

‘Collect as many as you can hold, then make your way straight back to the Haven. We’ll have to take the valley so you should be back first; let Bard know that I’m coming, maybe the infirmary too. If we’re not back by dark, don’t send anyone to look, okay?’

Avvie rolled her eyes a little but agreed.

‘Would you like help carrying the weapons?’ asked a dark haired teen, his face earnest. Thorin threw him a swift glance but stayed silent.

‘Sure,’ Avvie agreed, shrugging. The boy – teen – gave a bright smile in response.

She turned back to Sigrid and hefted her submachine gun, which she proceeded to hold out to the other girl.

‘Here, take the machine gun. More wide-range.’

Sigrid couldn't help her smile as her fingers closed around the moulded grip.

‘Thanks,’ she said, handing over her own pure-black pistol. She gave a wink that did nothing to reassure. ‘Bring back my Sauer, yeah?’

‘Aye aye, Captain,’ Avvie said, touching the muzzle briefly to her forehead. Her gaze darted to the dark-haired teen and she summoned him with a jerk of her chin. ‘Let’s be off.’

He returned her grin and jogged after her as she led the way down the street. 

‘Right,’ Sigrid began, voice falling into a cadence familiar from hundreds of repetitions. ‘There’s a band of mountains between us and Dale–’ she pointed a finger at the haze in the distance– ‘but because of your injured, we’ll have to take the long route. Should be about three, four hours, no more. Any questions?’

She glanced around the group, giving a short nod as they remained silent. Slinging the strap of the gun over her shoulder, she turned to face an alley to their left.

‘We’ll go as fast as we can. If we get attacked by orcs, try not to die.’

The company exchanged dubious glances as she led them off through the ruined city. 

 

* * *

 

**THE CELDUIN MOORS, 7km FROM DALE HAVEN**

The promise of rain sprawled heavily over the small group as the sun dipped on the horizon, sending crimson fingers streaking across the blackened clouds. Stunted trees dotted the landscape, thin and lonesome; the wet ground squelched between their boots and mud splattered their trousers where they straggled across the plains. Sigrid was alert at the forefront of the company, her gun cradled threateningly in her arms as her grey eyes darted unceasingly.

‘So,’ came a voice from behind her. ‘Are you used to this kinda thing?’

She turned her head as a wiry man fell into step beside her. He had an impressive moustache beneath kind eyes and a very odd hat, and looked to be around forty.

‘Depends what you mean,’ she replied. ‘I do have a lot of experience in walking.’

The man’s grin exposed a pair of dimples and dug friendly creases around his eyes.

‘Well, yes,’ he said. ‘But I was thinking more along the lines of surviving, slaying orcs, that sort of thing.’

‘We've all killed a lot of orcs,’ Sigrid said. ‘They invade the Haven and we have to keep them out. As for surviving, I’m still alive, aren’t I?’

He nodded like the answer was to be expected. ‘And what is your Haven like?’

The girl paused for a few seconds, adjusting her gun as she thought. How to describe Dale? Hectic, overcrowded, chaotic, bursting with life and resilience, even though it was colourless and drab. Yet its survival hung on a thread, the occupants’ mortality constantly reminded by the frequent orc attacks; and it was beginning to implode, a sinkhole blossoming at its centre, as the leader drew away.

‘It’s home,’ she answered after a pause, bereft of any other words to name it. ‘It’s safe, and we survive. It’s a Haven and it does its job well.’

She glanced at the other’s thoughtful expression from the corner of her eye as she navigated a particularly wet patch of grass.

‘What was Esgaroth like?’

Much as she had, he remained silent as he considered. When again he spoke his voice was wistful, flavoured by memories of an old home that was now razed to the ground.

‘Lovely, she was,’ he said. ‘Managed somehow to make the apocalypse less like the apocalypse. She was always bright and alive, ready to comfort us.’

Sigrid almost smiled at his loving description.

‘You make it sound like a real person.’

‘In a way, she was.’

She nodded and returned her gaze to the front, studying the barren landscape that was all she had ever known. Her life had always been difficult, unsteady and unpredictable, but she suspected that it was a candle to a flame before his past.

‘I’m Bofur, by the way,’ he said, giving her a lopsided grin. ‘Don’t think I told ya.’

Sigrid managed a polite smile, reaching to shake his proffered hand.

‘Pleased to meet you, Master Bofur. Sigrid Dale, at your service.’

‘And at yours, Milady.’

He gave an over-gallant bow, sweeping his hat off and sticking out his leg; she rolled her eyes, but laughed.

‘You're going to get muddy if you act so ridiculous.’

A grin spread across his face and he waggled his dirt-stained fingers in her direction. The movement brought up long-buried memories of a happier time, and despite herself she felt a little lighter.

‘Not overfond of mud, are ya?’

Sigrid gave an oh-please snort but kept her distance all the same. 

‘I have a gun,’ she pointed out, waggling her submachine.

Bofur’s grin only broadened as he pointed to the barrel.

‘Safety’s on.’

She grinned as he smirked at her.

Thorin watched the two warily from where he brought up the end of the group. His blue gaze briefly swept over the entire company, sharp vision noting every speck and scratch, before coming to rest on the stocky man by his side. He was taller than Thorin, muscular, with curling tattoos and deceptively hostile features.

‘Reckon we can trust them?’ he asked, voice low and rough. 

‘It’s the only option we have. Who else would take us in?’

The question was rhetorical and his companion didn’t reply; he already knew the answer, of course. His inked muscles bunched as he folded his arms, eyes performing a military-like perusal of the little group. Nobody else would take them in. Nobody.

Darkness fell over the plains as the thirteen survivors wound their way towards the mountains, the sky as dark and sombre as it had been for the last two hundred years.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Any feedback would be super appreciated as this fic is still new and I'm not really sure about my writing style. Also if anything confused you, if you have particular preferences for ships or any ideas for the story, they would mean a whole lot too :)


	3. Disturbance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The two groups face setbacks when travelling to Dale Haven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or place names included within this story, except for those I invented myself. 
> 
> finally i get my act together  
> c:

**SEPTEMBER 11, 2947**

_**After I lost my birthplace, I thought that I could never have another home. It took me the entire journey, all the pain and heartbreak and death for me to realise that home isn’t always a place. It’s a statement I’ve heard often enough, empty words used to reassure; but it was never really driven, I never really understood what it meant. Home is where the heart is. I’ve found my heart in the people around me, and I can only hope that I won’t lose them.** _

* * *

 

**APRIL 1 2945**

**GIRION’S PASS, 5.5km FROM DALE HAVEN**

The muddy plains of the marsh had evolved into a scrub of red grass, dry and half-dead. It crunched and swished beneath the thirteen travellers; Sigrid was almost ten metres before anyone else, walking on determinedly as the others straggled along behind. She paused, bringing her machine gun up to rest against her shoulder as she turned on the dozen men.

‘What are you all dawdling for?’ she called, her voice rolling across the open plains. They gave her varying degrees of annoyed glares, between heavy breaths dragged from abused lungs. Bofur put up a hand from where he lagged at the back.

‘Just a suggestion, lass,’ he managed. ‘Perhaps we should take a rest?’

Approving looks were shot in his direction, but Sigrid merely arched her eyebrows. She succeeded in repressing her smile as she swept her eyes over the exhausted group. The sky was darkening above them, sick crimson deepening to a dark rosewood, yet it wouldn’t do anyone favours if orcs jumped them and they were too exhausted to fight. Sigrid’d had that experience before, and was not keen to repeat.

‘If you insist. Rest your lily-white feet, and I’ll go scout ahead.’

She left swiftly, shaking her head as the men flopped to the ground with almost indecent moans. As she drew away, the only noise became the rushing of the wind and the rustling of the grass. The atmosphere was heavy, the plains darkening; Sigrid could taste rain upon the cool air – real rain, not acid, thank the gods.

As she darted up a small rise, a previously hidden landscape folded out before her, grey dust sharply sloping until it became mountains, snowcapped and cloaked with mist. A tiny stream wound between the massive cliffs, a thin silver ribbon shining dully beneath the dark skies.

Sigrid stood on the rise, studying the pass. The wind tugged at her hair and clothes and she was glad for the thick suit she wore. The path was cold and misty; yet it was relatively flat and safe, in contrast to the more direct way through the mountains. She studied the landscape before her until her eyes began to sting and prickle, then she turned and made her way back.

‘The pass of Gondor,’ Sigrid announced. The dozen men stared uncomprehendingly at her from where they lay on the ground; she took a deep breath, a little winded from her run back to the group.

‘It’s the mountain pass we’re taking,’ she elaborated. ‘Avvie will be taking Rhovanion Way, but because of your injuries we have to go the long way round. There’s a slightly higher risk for orcs; if we keep an eye out we should be okay. If we leave now we’ll reach Dale within the hour.’

Her accompanying pointed glance was enough to provoke the group to move. Thorin, of course, was first up, shortly followed by a burly man she’d heard been called Dwalin. Bofur stood reluctantly after a brief look at the ginger man, who was still half-unconscious; his dark-haired brother and a blonde helped him with their dazed companion.

Sigrid began walking without looking back, certain that they would follow. Agitatedly she scanned the darkening skies, her fingers tightening on her gun; it had been a long time since she’d been out this late. The last time…well. That hadn’t ended nicely.

‘Hello.’

A quiet greeting broke her from her memories rather swiftly and she glanced over her shoulder. The blonde had appeared behind her, the one she’d seen glance after the teen who went with Avvie – they looked similar enough to be kin, perhaps even brothers.

Sigrid gave a nod in reply as he fell into step beside her. She’d heard that this boy was Thorin’s nephew; she wondered if he was anything like him. He didn’t seem like it – Thorin was dark, guarded, angry, and this boy seemed much younger and more naïve.

‘How dangerous is the other pass?’ he asked. She could see the worry beneath his words – definitely a brother, then. She wondered if he’d had any other family before the orcs took Esgaroth, and how close their loss must have made the two.

‘It isn’t really that bad,’ she admitted. ‘It can be a little dangerous, but I’m sure they’ll be fine.’

Even with her reassurance, Fíli couldn’t help the images of steep cliffs and slippery pathways hovering in his mind’s eye like troublesome ghosts.

‘Are you sure?’

He received the impression that the girl was holding back a grin. It made him wonder exactly how much of a worrywart he has morphed into, and if Kíli’s constant refrains of ‘Grandma Fíli’ were more accurate than he first thought. Kíli had always seemed at least a decade younger that his seventeen years.

‘Distinctly.’

The heathlands spread around them, unfolding into the hazy distance in a rust red wasteland, broken only by craggy rocks scattered like dust among the seemingly neverending tundra. Aside from the laboured breathing and rustlings of the company, the land was dead silent. The sky was as it ever was: the clouds were dark as coal at the apex of the inverted bowel that was the sky, fading through dusty red to an ashy white on the horizon. Fíli kept pace with the girl beside him, trying not to breathe too loudly – no matter how fit one was, two years constantly on the move tears to wear on the strength. Gooseflesh rippled across Fíli’s exposed arms, risen by the biting wind; he distinctly felt a touch of snow on the breeze, and wondered at its source.

‘Are there mountains nearby?’

‘Yes, just over that rise there.’

She pointed in the vague direction of a slope only a few hundred metres away. Fíli narrowed his eyes and squinted, but still he could see nothing other than scrubby tundra and crimson skies.

‘I’m not used to mountains,’ he said. 

‘Did your homehaven not have any?’

‘No,’ Fíli replied, his cropped blonde hair ruffling in the breeze. ‘It was really flat. Just lakes. I never saw Erebor, it was gone before I was born...we could barely see the mountain in the distance.’

‘Well, from what I’ve heard, they aren’t nearly as impressive as Erebor; but, here are some mountains for you.’

Sigrid watched as Fíli’s eyes grew wide. She couldn’t imagine seeing mountains for the first time; there were none around Dale Haven, but she performed the trip to the City almost every other day. It must be strange, she thought, to see something so large for the first time.

‘They look like fangs,’ Fíli murmured, only half to his companion. ‘Huge, jagged fangs.’

He paused atop the scrub-encrusted tor as Sigrid went on ahead; he wasn’t sure how he felt about the mountains. They had a wild, free, earthy sort of beauty, but their jagged peaks scything into the low-hanging clouds added a distinct edge of danger to the tableau.

Despite his edginess, Fíli barely flinched when a rough hand descended on his shoulder. The clap was soon followed by a rough encouragement, then the muscular figure of Dwalin.

‘Onwards and upwards, lad,’ he said gruffly. ‘Follow the crazy girl.’

Fíli choked on his own breath as Dwalin strode past. He was trying to decide whether to laugh or reprimand the forty-one year old when an immense sound like thunder crashing shattered through the air, sending the ground rippling like water and pain shooting through Fíli’s eardrums. Before him he could just barely see the smeared figures of the others trembling like leaves in the wind. His knees buckled and he fell to a kneel, a terrible ache smashing into his skull; he barely even registered when the sounds ended and the ground was solid once more.

‘ _The hell was that?’_ came a muted shout, barely filtering through what seemed to be layers of acid burning into Fíli’s ears. He pressed a palm to his head and tried not to cry out, focusing upon the figure of his uncle advancing towards Sigrid. The girl stood framed against the darkening sky as her brown hair tugged in the wind and she stared towards the mountain.

‘Gunshots,’ she said, her voice fading in and out of Fíli’s hearing. ‘Avvie must be cornered. But still, why would she…’

Sigrid paused in her monologue, barely conscious of the dozen men grouped around her, almost half still on the ground.

‘Oh. She has the boy with her,’ she realised. Her hands tightened around the grip of her snub-nosed machine gun until it dug into her skin. In an instant she remembered her companions and turned to face them, the line of her shoulders tense as a ready bowstring.

‘Let’s go. Quickly.’

_Before night falls._

 

* * *

**RHOVANION WAY, 2km FROM DALE HAVEN**

Avvie’s fingers, despite her best efforts, shook as she reloaded the clip of Sigrid’s Sig Sauer. She breathed out in a rapid burst, watching as the tiny white cloud trailed uncertainly up into the icy air, curling softly before dissipating. The young, dark-haired boy – Kíli, was that his name? – panted like a dog as he curled up against the rugged cliff to their backs. Their ears still rang with the sounds of gunshots, made deafening by the surrounding mountains; they had been lucky to escape the resulting landslide alive, let alone the orcs.

The infected had come from nowhere, appearing like white shadows around the jagged rock corners. Their dark red eyes had burned with an unquenchable thirst – for what, water, death, blood, Avvie hadn’t wanted to know – and she had reacted instinctively, firing headshot after headshot as they barrelled around the corner. Kíli had cried out and nearly dropped the bag of guns which they had retrieved from the dilapidated supermarket – he’d regained his balance, only to nearly tumble down the steep fall below, plunging into the clouded vale.

The left-over adrenaline which pounded through Avvie’s brain still made her mind dizzy and her vision sharp; she felt that she could sense the boy’s every shudder through the snow beneath her boots.

‘Alright,’ she said, gathering herself from years of experience. ‘We should get going if we want to reach Dale before sunset.’

Kíli made no reply except to curl up tighter. The girl couldn’t conceal her surprise as she stared down at him – even Tilda, Sigrid’s twelve-year-old sister, would not be this affected by an orc attack. A shadow fell over Avvie’s face, and she glanced up to see the sky already rapidly darkening. She let out a sigh and crouched to tug at Kíli’s arm.

‘C’mon,’ she grunted as she pulled it around her shoulder. ‘You can do it.’

She rose to her feet, swaying a little beneath the new weight, and stumbled off down the treacherous path. The cold air burned in her lungs, each breath sounding strained and painful; Avvie had never felt so tired, or alone, in her seventeen years. At least in every other situation like this she’d have Sigrid by her side, protecting her back, giving her the courage she always pretended to have – and not a deadweight boy to lug around. Yet, even when her thoughts were less-than-complimentary towards Kíli, the girl never for a moment considered leaving him.

‘Y-you should leave me,’ came Kíli’s jagged voice in her ear. ‘I c-can’t do this.’

‘Like hell you can’t!’ Avvie snapped back instantly, her dark eyes furious on the path before her. ‘Don’t you want to see your family again? You are _not_ allowed to give up.’

Kíli let out a shuddering breath and began to stumble along with her; his arm tightened around her neck and he raised his head, securing his hold on the strap slung over his shoulder

When the awful howl of an orc echoed through the icy dusk, he didn’t even flinch.

  

* * *

 

**REDSANDS, 2km FROM DALE HAVEN**

‘Keep running!’ Sigrid shouted, her words made jagged as her feet pounded at the dark scarlet dust. ‘ _Don’t look back_!’

Disobeying her own orders, she halted and spun in one rushed movement, bringing the black muzzle of her machine gun up. For one precious second she squinted through the near-opaque darkness, the weird red glow of the dying sun painting the sands before her with blood and ink. A splotch of white, a thumbprint in the darkness, bloomed into view; without hesitation Sigrid clenched the trigger and braced for recoil, sending the shape spinning off into the night.

 _‘Sigrid!’_ came a raw cry from behind her. Bofur and an injured Fíli were desperately trying to protect Bombur as three orcs, hulking deformed masses of white skin and muscle, barrelled towards them with awful screeches.

Fíli shoved Bofur swiftly, the hatted man stumbling and tripping just as one of the orcs launched itself at the space where he had stood. This move left Fíli’s back exposed to the other two – he knew it, could almost feel the sharp nails ripping towards him, the bloody, infected teeth – the nape of his neck tingled as a talon swiped by it – he heard a terrible gurgle – a dying gurgle? – and a weight fell upon him and knocked him to the ground.

Sigrid threw another of her small knives with deadly accuracy, the sharp blade severing the brainstem of the orc crouching over Bombur. Without watching it slump to the ground, she tugged her knife from the first orc’s skull before rolling it over to free a trapped Fíli.

‘Are you okay?’ she panted. ‘Did you get bit?’

He stared up at her for a confused second before shaking his head. ‘No, but did you?’

Sigrid was so covered in black blood and gore he had almost mistaken her for another orc – but her skin was unbroken, the deadly virus clean from her veins, and he could see it by the clarity in her expression; even the newly bitten showed the signs of the disease. As she gave him a hand to help him up, he stared around at the rest of their group – Thorin and Dwalin had felled their fair number of orcs with rocks and debris scavenged from the ground; Dori had managed to kill one or two, and Gloin had protected the injured Oin with the knife Sigrid had thrown.

The rest had gathered around Bombur.

A frown creased Sigrid’s brow as she studied the huddled group. There was no way that she could know for sure, but as she took in their bowed heads, their slumped shoulders, their closed eyes, a feeling of foreboding hummed at the back of her mind like a hive of bees.

‘Is he…’

Neither could answer Sigrid’s unfinished question. But Nori stood slowly, revealing to the two a view of Bombur lying prone on the ground, his face latticed with awful scars as his eyes closed in death.

‘I was too late,’ Sigrid whispered. Fíli was unable to reply, his body going numb as he stared with burning eyes at his dead comrade. The scent of burning pervaded his senses, fiery heat racing up his arms, as the scenery changed. Wooden houses, lit up like jack-o-lanterns, cracked and screamed as the sounds of pain and fear incarnate ripped through the midday air. The blue sky was coloured with black and the clear waters were coloured with red.

Fíli was fifteen years old once again, watching the destruction of Esgaroth.

The deafening sound of a gunshot shredded through his memories, tearing back to the present, and he blinked away the shimmering veil before turning his head to stare at Sigrid. She was standing with her submachine gun raised to her face, squinting one eye through the sights. He followed the direction that the snub barrel was pointing to see countless orcs appearing through the darkness, their howls echoing along the plains.

Sigrid took a deep breath to calm her thrumming heart, the familiarity of her actions seeping into her bones. Under normal circumstances she would have been pressuring the eleven surviving men to up and move, but given the death of one of their comrades she thought to buy them a few minutes.

With a press of the trigger she sent four toppling to the ground and a hole cleaving through another’s forearm. The rest – that she could see, a score or so – roared and sped up, shambling at a deceptively swift speed. She ignored the primordial panic digging its claws into her stomach, taking aim once more and shooting compressed bursts at the approaching beasts; yet even as they fell, more and more appeared from the thickening darkness.

‘It’s useless,’ she hissed to herself, before turning to the eleven survivors to call to them.

‘We have to go!’ Sigrid shouted, her voice breaking midsentence. ‘If you want to survive, we have to go!’

None of them moved except for Thorin and Dwalin, who only looked up to give her threatening glowers; Fíli remained frozen beside her.

They had lost people before, all of them, in the destruction of Esgaroth. Yet in the two years following, all thirteen of them had stayed together, grown closer, survived easily with songs around campfires and laughter in forests. They had nearly even forgotten the existence of orcs in their wanderings; even Bombur’s original injury had been caused by a mere fall. Over the two years, they had become almost like a true family, a family which was now breaking apart.

The urge to up and go, to simply leave, was tempting. She had tried to save them. She had abandoned Avvie, her friend of almost twelve years, to take Rhovanion Way alone. She was risking her own life, ammunition, and weaponry, to stay out past night. There was a poisonous voice inside her which urged her to go, let them fend their own way with their resentful glares and ungrateful attitudes –

Sigrid shook her head angrily. _He_ would never even consider leaving anyone behind. He would be disappointed with her if she caved once more to temptation. Leaving them would be a profound insult to his memory…But she had no idea what to do. She wasn’t good with words; she never had the right thing to say. She didn’t know these men, what could spark them to move on.

Swallowing her pride, she looked to the boy.

‘Fíli, please,’ she whispered.

He blinked rapidly, looking much younger than before, before nodding. Sigrid turned away to scan for approaching orcs as he took a step towards the group.

‘Uncle,’ Fíli began quietly. ‘Didn’t you once say…that you would avenge the people of Esgaroth? _Your_ people? Didn’t you say, whatever it took, that you’d protect all of us remaining?’

Looking up slowly, the black blood-soaked hair before Thorin’s eyes matched the anger within them. His nephew ignored this, stepping once more in his direction.

‘You said that you would reclaim our homeland. You can’t do that if we die, and we will, if we stay. Bombur…he isn’t here, but we are. It is disrespectful to all those who fell in Erebor and Esgaroth, and especially Bombur, if we just give up and choose to die.’

The last sliver of the crimson sun disappeared behind the sandy mountains, the plains darkening beneath the inky sky. Sigrid was staring upwards as the first star appeared, a tiny dot of light, and the sight brought bad memories. Impatience tingled down her spine, yet out of respect for Fíli she allowed him his chance.

Fíli watched his uncle, exhausted. He wasn’t sure why he’d said what he did; in fact, he could barely even remember what he said. He was just _tired_. He wanted to see Kíli, and have food, and sit around a fire with the entire company. He wanted Bombur to be alive. He wanted to be happy. He wanted to be _safe_.

But before that…

‘Very well,’ Thorin replied slowly, with a glance to Dwalin. ‘Fíli is right. I did make an oath, one which I intend to fulfil.’

Rising to his feet, Fíli’s uncle gave a sweeping glance to the ten others, finishing on Sigrid. The girl met his eyes, and the two seemed to have a silent conversation before she looked away to scan the perimeter and Thorin returned his attention to his comrades.

‘For Bombur and those we have lost, we continue,’ he said. Fíli saw that Bofur was smiling with wet eyes, and that Bifur dipped his head in acknowledgement, and that Ori stood with determination in every line of his youthful face.

 

* * *

 

**THE WALLS OF DALE HAVEN, WESTERN FACE**

The walls were massive, concrete, plated with metal bars and patrolled by a score of heavily armed Dalens. Powerful halogen lights painted the colourless sand before them a blinding white; the occasional gunshot rang through the air, swiftly followed by the screech of a dying orc. Dale Haven housed the largest remaining number of humans in the country, perhaps even the world, and its defence made it obvious why.

‘This is it?’ Balin whispered, his voice like the wind in the night. Sigrid gave a short nod in reply; she was almost entirely absorbed in studying the gates. Something seemed to have changed…yet she couldn’t quite put her finger on exactly what.

‘Doesn’t exactly look welcoming,’ muttered Nori. The older man beside him – Dori – cuffed him around the head.

‘Be respectful,’ Dori berated his brother. ‘’Tis better than nothing!’

Thorin watched Sigrid through the night. There was something odd about the Haven – he could see it in the girl’s face, in her stance, in the darkness staining the concrete walls and the adrenaline thrumming through every line of the guards’ bodies.

‘Let’s go,’ Sigrid said.

Thorin followed her with every instinct warning him against it.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you are enjoying this so far! Any feedback, and I mean any, is highly appreciated. Additionally, advice upon characterisation, settings, etc is totally awesome and loved :)


	4. Update

Hey guys :)

I'm sorry to tell you this, but I will temporarily be putting this fic on hiatus until I finish some others. I would very much like to return to this story after a few months, so at least there's that.

Thanks so much for reading up to here!


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